Everything you see, you might be seeing for the last time.

I'm watching her talk. Watching her jaw move and collecting her words one by one as they spill from her lips. I don't deserve them. Her warm memories. I'd like to paint them over the bare plaster walls of my soul, but everything I paint seems to peel.

What wonderful thing didn't start out scary?

I want to change my punctuation. I long for exclamation marks, but I'm drowning in ellipses.

I'm not a general or a colonel or a builder of cities. I'm just a corpse who wants not to be.

I wince at her use of the word "human." I've never liked that differentiation. She is living and I'm dead, but we're both human. Call me an idealist.

What's wrong with people?" she says, almost too quiet for me to hear. "Were they born with parts missing or did it fall out somewhere along the way?